


Treasure to Me

by RivetingRosie



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, Kindness, Loneliness, Love, Loving Marriage, Making Love, Micah is a dick, Mild Language, Mild Sexual Content, Reader has body image issues, Reader-Insert, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Acceptance, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Worth Issues, Sexual Content, Trust, Wedding Night, body image issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:53:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26846188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RivetingRosie/pseuds/RivetingRosie
Summary: **Chapter 2 added**"You’d never admit it to anyone—you hated to do so even in your own head because you knew it would only hurt you to spend your time hoping—but your thoughts for him were far from that of a sister's.But every time your mind ventured down that path, you inevitably scrunched up your nose, rolled your eyes, and shook your head in disgust at yourself, quickly cutting away that line of thought."Reader has severe body image issues and loves Arthur but is convinced he's too good for her. Arthur does his best to comfort her and set her straight.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan & Reader, Arthur Morgan/Reader
Comments: 22
Kudos: 131





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I noticed there were hardly any works, much less any reader-inserts, on this topic. So I decided to give it a whirl and try my hand at it. This is my first ever reader-insert, so please be gentle.

As the last bit of sunshine from the crouching sun warms your cheek, you stand in camp with your arm around a bucket of dried corn and seed. You sink your hand into the feed and bring it out, scattering the handful onto the ground for the boisterous chickens before you. You repeat the action, this time leaving your hand in the bucket a moment longer and savoring the feeling of the cool beads of corn enveloping your hand.  
When you scatter the feed again, you smile as the tiny yellow chicks scurry out from under the hen, past tentativeness and giving into their hunger. It wasn’t the worst chore; you'd learned to look for life's little pleasures to help you get through. But you’d forgotten to do it this morning amongst your other chores and were just now getting to it.  
You’d been running with the Van der Linde gang for a couple years when they settled at Horseshoe Overlook. Most of your fellow gang members had become closer than friends—more like family. And up until recent events, you’d settled into a nice rhythm of getting by, simply grateful to have what you could call something close to a family around you.  
Before Dutch and Hosea picked you up, getting by was the very best term anyone could use for what you’d been doing. Holed up all on your own in an abandoned shack on the edge of an old mining town, hardly ever seeing a human face, much less a friendly one. You’d taken to small odd jobs—sweeping the little local general store, mucking out barns and stables, mending tears at the tailor's. But for the most part, you’d kept to yourself, since you hadn’t known anyone at all in the area.  
You’d had a normal life once. But that felt like lifetimes ago now. Your mother had succumbed to illness when you were eleven, and you’d always stuck by your father’s side after that, even well into your twenties. You liked to think of it as supporting him since the sorrow of losing your mother had almost taken him to an early grave. But maybe you’d been a bit of a crutch to each other. The truth was you’d never seemed to be able to make friends that stuck; and you'd never once had a man show any type of romantic interest in you in the slightest, so marriage and family of your own was nigh an impossibility.  
Then after years of your father attempting to make a decent living in numerous industries, he had decided to move the two of you and try his hand at mining, despite your protests. And it wasn’t long before he and a group of a few other men got themselves killed in a blast. A part of you wondered if he hadn’t been just fine with risking his life that way. But he’d left you alone, and you’d resigned yourself to just getting by, just getting through life.  
In a moment of weakness and near delirium, you’d tried stealing a jar of fine pearl buttons from the tailor—the only thing of worth in the place—and just before you got away and never looked back, you were caught. Dutch had happened to be in the shop at just the right moment and smooth-talked to whole thing over for you like nothing you’d ever seen.  
And the rest was your history. You were here now, still just getting by, but with others who were doing the same and many of whom often found reasons to smile and help you smile too. Dutch and Hosea were like fathers, the rest of the gang like cousins and siblings. Arthur was a close friend and had become almost like a brother. Almost.  
From the moment you’d first met him, you’d been transfixed by just how beautiful he was; you didn’t even shy away from the word in your mind—beautiful was exactly what he was. Sturdy and big. Strong, tough, and brawny, with eyes like bright sapphires and a smile that made your knees turn to water. And the more you got to know him, you saw he was just as beautiful inside too—thoughtful, kind, sharp as a tack, protective, witty, even gentle at times. You’d never admit it to anyone—you hated to do so even in your own head because you knew it would only hurt you to spend your time hoping—but your thoughts for him were far from that of a sister's.  
But every time your mind ventured down that path, you inevitably scrunched up your nose, rolled your eyes, and shook your head in disgust at yourself, quickly cutting away that line of thought. There was nothing special about you, and you knew it well. Nothing interesting, nothing to draw people, nothing beautiful whatsoever. Rather, you found yourself disgusting. In fact, you’d begun loathing mirrors at about age fifteen. You’d never been thin, and you were even somewhere past plump. You couldn’t even claim a curvy hourglass figure, not with the way corsets buckled and cried for mercy around your waist. Your body—from your face right down to your big feet—just hadn’t ever seemed to want to emulate the dainty examples of feminine loveliness found on cigarette cards and in the women’s section of clothing catalogues.  
You blink in the marigold morning rays and struggle to keep from looking down at yourself. Voluptuous was probably the very best descriptor you could think of, but you were certain it still wasn’t in any attractive sort of way. You knew for a fact you were far from what men found desirable; you’d learned so as early as the schoolhouse. You’d developed and rounded out faster than the other girls, and the older you got, the comparison had become starker rather than fading away. The boys had avoided you like the plague, becoming more blatant as time went on in their whispering, jeering, and making jokes amongst themselves at your expense. Your assumptions were only proven correct when a beau never came knocking as you passed through adolescence and into adulthood, now approaching your thirties.  
Tiny, coarse little hairs had appeared under your chin, making you shudder at the thought of a man bringing his hand up to touch you there and finding it a bit rough rather than soft and smooth. To top all of it off, you’d struggled almost your entire life with bouts of blemishes—painful to experience and to look at—that sprang up every now and then and left little marks to remind you that you were no sumptuous beauty. Nothing close. You could completely understand why your appearance had incurred laughs and derision. And you couldn’t imagine a man ever being able to ignore the outside of you, ever pursuing you or considering you precious. You were simply no dream.  
Love and children seemed to come easy to most people. Seemed to just happen to them. To happen every day, all around you. But not for you. You’d sometimes wondered to yourself if you would end up dying a friendless, childless old maid. So you’d kept to yourself, convincing yourself that the very best you could manage in life was to survive and to find people who were just okay with being around you. It had its good and bad days, but on the whole, it was exactly what this gang had turned out to be, and you were grateful. It was more meaningful human interaction from more people than you’d had probably your whole life. You very well might still die a childless old maid, but you thought you could be okay with that, now that you had friends.  
But tonight wasn’t the brightest of moments of gang life. As it grew dim, the other members had begun retiring to their tents and lean-tos, with a few of the men remaining up and gathering around the campfire. And you could hear them talking from where you stood, still a way off with your back to them.  
“What's a feller gotta do to get a peck or a roll in the hay round here, huh? What’s with all these uptight women, anyway?”  
Micah's voice. You roll your eyes.  
“Maybe they don’t like the idea of cozyin' up to a cactus, prickly and nasty as you are.”  
Arthur. A grin slowly replaces your scowl.  
“Oh, like you’re much better, cowpoke.”  
“Oh, no, no,” Arthur wheezes. “Don’t try an’ make this about me. You don’t see me slatherin’ over ‘em like you do. Least I treat ‘em like human bein's.”  
You can imagine him bringing his big fingers up and taking a puff from his cigarette.  
“Who was it you had your eye on?” Javier asks.  
“Well, I don’t _know_ ,” Micah responds, his tone of voice both annoyed and syrupy. “Any you know be up for a good time?”  
“Karen’s free, far as I know,” Javier says.  
“Too much of a spitfire for my taste,” Bill chimes in.  
“Adler's a no,” Micah laments.  
“And I know you’d never go near Tilly,” Javier says.  
“Wouldn’t be caught dea—”  
“And you shouldn’t,” Arthur sharply cuts him off.  
You smile again at Arthur’s protectiveness and the awkward stillness clearly left in its wake.  
“Mary Beth?” Javier suggests, finally breaking the silence.  
“Too good for you. Too sweet,” Bill says.  
“They’re _all_ too good for you,” Arthur insists again.  
“What about (Y/N)?”  
You go stiff. You’d thought this discussion coarse, shallow, abhorrent, and pathetic, but now you suddenly couldn't pull yourself away if you tried, no matter how you dread these next moments.  
Micah suddenly bursts into raucous laughter, and it peters off after several seconds. “You can’t be… You ain’t… You’re jokin', right? Tell me you’re pullin’ my leg.”  
Silence.  
“Well, ‘course not! Who’d ever wanna be with _that?!_ You can’t try tellin' me any a' you ever would.”  
Silence. You try to swallow, feeling as if you might actually vomit. As the tears swamp in your eyes and your throat tightens, you slowly set the bucket down to try to keep from making a sound.  
“Clown-faced pig… Riskin’ sickness with a whore’d be better. I’m surprised you all think quite so little of me. I don’t hate myself,” Micah begins to chuckle his weasely chuckle. “Her face might not be cause for retchin', but the rest of her sure is,” you hear as the bottom of the bucket finally makes contact with the ground.  
You shut your eyes tight and gingerly take a step, praying your boots don’t crunch in the dirt.  
“Best she’s ever gonna get is a sirin’ session out with the mules or hogs,” Micah laughs.  
And you take your chances, hurrying as you half-run the agonizing distance to the girls' lean-to.  
“Or maybe if the circus comes into town, she'll have a chance with one a’ the apes. Or maybe an elephant…” is the last thing you hear before you reach the lean-to and clap your hands over your face in mortified horror, lie your head against the pillow, and begin quietly sobbing yourself to sleep.  
And you think that maybe your curse of homeliness is actually a blessing in disguise, that there isn’t a man kind or patient enough left in the world, and maybe all you’ve really been is spared.  
What you didn’t hear was Arthur standing abruptly and slicing him a new one with, “ _Shut_ your goddamn filthy mouth, you sorry sack a’ shit.”  
And John overlapping his words from where he stood leaning against a tree: “You got a black heart hardly a mother could love, you snake.”  
Arthur still reaming him with, “You’re lucky I got just enough self-control to keep from tearin’ your throat out, you barbarous waste of breath.”  
And Lenny adding, “Better not let us catch you talkin’ like that again, Micah.”  
“I do, and I’ll have half a mind to slit you and grind you into mulch, and it’ll be the best thing you ever did for anybody, you sick, twisted son of a bitch,” Arthur breathily tacked on for good measure with a snarl before huffing off towards his covered wagon.

* * *

The next morning you wake to the usual sight of the other girls getting up and dressing. You were the only one who always kept her day clothes on through the night every night. Even Sadie, a recent widow, always stripped down to her nightgown before bed. But you were more comfortable with more clothing, and less comfortable with less.  
You groggily rub the crust that last night’s tears had left on your eyes as you turn over. But when you do, your eyes land on the small bundle of wildflowers that had been left on a nearby crate about a week ago. When you’d first seen it, you'd completely disregarded it without a second thought, certain it wasn’t meant for you. Now it was dry and brittle, flattened to the shape of the crate where it sat untouched. You think it a shame none of the other girls had put them in water and discovered who had left them for one of them. But as you lie there another few seconds, you start to feel resentment at ladies who so easily received attention and compliments like that and could leave them to gather dust as if a nuisance.  
You sit up, immediately get coffee, and go to work feeding the chickens, determined not to forget and risk a repeat of last night. When you finish, you decide today you'd make your usual trip to the waterfall. While the other ladies made a habit of washing themselves down river with at least one of them, usually Miss Grimshaw, standing guard to prevent onlookers, that was nowhere near good enough for you. When the gang had first arrived at Horseshoe Overlook, you’d taken your horse and scouted the area for a water source hidden away. And you’d finally found just the thing: a waterfall modest in size, bigger than a spring and not so big that the water would pound over you. And even though it was part of a creek, it was mostly hidden by trees and brush. You decided to make it your private bathing hole, and you’d been going there ever since.  
So you mount your horse and take off at a trot towards it. When you get there, you make double sure no one is around before disrobing, grabbing your bar of soap, and stepping under the waterfall. When you finish, you dry off, dress, and return to camp.  
Later that afternoon when you're scooping a bowl of stew from the community pot for your supper, Arthur comes and stands beside you with a smile.  
You do your best to smile in return, but find it difficult.  
“How ya farin'?” he finally asks as he holds his mug of coffee before his chest. “Stew bite ya back yet?”  
You duck your head with a snicker through your nose. “Should I even ask what you brought back to go in it, with a comment like that?”  
“Nah. Unless you’d be happy with alligator,” he says with a smirk as he lifts the mug to his lips again.  
You can’t help but smile at his wry expression. “I ain’t picky,” you say as you take a bite. “I mean,” you replace your spoon to the edge of the bowl as you swallow, making a wide sweeping gesture over yourself and letting your arm drop, “that's clear, right?”  
His brows come together for a moment as he watches you. He swallows his coffee and smacks his lips a little to savor it. “Not a one of us can afford to be picky right now. Just gotta take whatever we can get as it comes.”  
“Right,” you nod strongly as you swallow another bite, the brusqueness of your tone a little more sarcastic than you’d meant it.  
You watch as his demeanor curiously begins to change: his hand comes up to rub behind his neck, only one side of his mouth curls up, and he's needlessly clearing his throat. It’s almost like he's itchy. Or nervous.  
“So, uh…” he clears his throat yet again. “You didn’t…didn’t like the flowers?”  
Your heart stops along with your chewing as your eyes grow wide, and you swallow what was in your mouth. And without even really being able to explain why, you’re suddenly filled with equal measures of agony and anger. The sight of him blurs before you, and you immediately drop the bowl of stew with a clatter and begin to walk off.  
“Don’t make fun of me. Not you,” is the only quiet murmur you can manage.  
But he runs out in front of you to stop you. “What’re you talkin' about?” he tries to chuckle.  
You look up into his eyes. “You’re gettin’ real good at playin’ dumb, Arthur.” When he still doesn’t own up, you squint in frustration, and the tears threaten to spill. “I _heard_ it. All of it.”  
His eyes search yours, looking to understand, until suddenly his expression smoothes and the blood drains from his face. “My god… I’m…I’m sorry you did.” His frown is limp, and he swallows as his eyes float down. But just as soon, they pop back up to you. “Wait. How much’d you hear?”  
“I told you. All of it.” Your frown twitches as you struggle with all your might to keep from bursting into tears right then and there. You step past him, deciding you need at least a good hour alone in the woods. Maybe you’d sit with your feet in the river, your favorite place to think.  
“Well then you heard me rip into ‘im too,” he calls after you, causing you to stop as you fight to put the pieces of this new and seemingly impossible puzzle together.  
You hear his footsteps approach again as you look down at the soft green grass.  
“(Y/N)…” he whispers as he comes close, the sound of your name from his lips beckoning you to look up at him. He waits until you’re eye to eye, and you see that his expression is earnest as he reaches out for your hand. “Ya gotta know I’m sweet on ya by now.”  
The words are as good to you as a foreign language; you can’t make sense of a single part of it. And all you’re left with is an inward tug-of-war between two things, neither of which you can quite bring yourself to believe: that Arthur as he stands before you is just as cruel as every other man, or that as he says, there’s something in you he wants.  
It’s too much crashing in on you at once, and you pull your hand away, closing your eyes as you walk away. “You can’t. You can’t be.”  
You ride to your river, and when you get there, you dismount, remove your boots, and sit on the bank, folding up your knees and letting your toes and feet dip under the crisp, cool water.  
You feel horrible for leaving Arthur standing there. You couldn’t speak for him and say you were his best friend, but without a doubt he was yours, and you were always honest and talked things out with each other.  
Either Arthur has a cruel streak, or he’s truly sweet on you. Of course, the third possible explanation for his behavior is that he pities you. When that pops into your head, you honestly can’t tell which of the three scares you the most.  
You know Arthur well. You know he isn’t cruel.  
You reach up and run your fingertips through your hair, letting your nails scratch your scalp for a moment before finally resting your elbow on your thigh and your cheek on the heel of your hand. You clench your eyes shut as you dare to think back on the painful, vile comments from the night before, and the silence they’d been met with. Of course you couldn’t have seen their faces, but you’d been certain it had meant quiet agreement from the group.  
It doesn’t make sense to you why Arthur would’ve remained silent towards such comments if he felt differently. You close your eyes and take a breath as the water rushes over your toes. You do know Arthur as a very private person, and you also know that relations between _some_ in the gang are tense and precarious.  
And if Arthur had stood up for you, if he’d been the one to leave the flowers, and they were meant for you… If he felt about you the way he said he did…  
With your eyes still closed, you swallow and swipe your hand over your forehead. You’d have to talk to him. You’d have to clear this up, get the notion out of his head before it hurt you both.  
Seemingly on cue, you hear a rustling in the bushes to your left and look over to see Arthur walking towards you. He knew this was your special place for contemplation.  
Knowing your eyes and nose must be hideously red and puffy, you dip your face into your folded arms and turn to look the other way as he comes and sits beside you. And the two of you are quiet for a little while.  
“Wanna tell me why you had to run off?” he finally says.  
You sniff and answer without turning to him. “Camp is a little hard to be around these days. Didn’t wanna break down and have it out in front of everybody.” You can imagine him nodding in his understanding and comforting way.  
“I just meant…why’d what I said make you so skittish?”  
You shrug one shoulder and finally turn to face him. “No short answer. Don’t exactly have an ocean of suitors linin’ up for me.”  
“Their loss,” he says with a grin.  
Feeling you can’t quite match his grin, you swallow. “See…I don’t even have the experience to tell me whether you’re bein’ sweet or a smartass.”  
His brows come together, but his grin remains. “So _cynical_.”  
He’s finally succeeded at eliciting a brief, chortled scoff of a laugh from you as you rest your chin on your forearm. “I don’t mean to be. I guess I’ve…just learned to always be on the lookout for reality bein’ different than what I might…hope for.”  
From your place over your folded arms, your eyes travel over him, the way he’s struggling to know how to sit in the soft dirt beside you—what to do with his legs and whether to rest his hands on his knees or on the ground. You’ve never noticed him behave this way before.  
You clear your throat.  
“I need to talk to you—”  
“There’s somethin’ I gotta—”  
You both begin at the same time.  
He sighs with a smirk and nods. “Ladies first.”  
Licking your lips, you sit up, smoothing your skirt over your knees. You never thought you’d share such private thoughts with anyone as you were about to. So you take a breath and close your eyes for just a moment to steady yourself.  
“Arthur…” you begin, looking up at his face, “I’m not…” You sigh, struggling to find the right words. “You don’t want me. Okay?”  
“I—”  
“Let me finish. Please. I gotta get this out.” You watch him nearly grumble and sigh as he relents. “You’re…” Your eyes quickly fill, and your frown deepens, and you realize there was no way you were ever going to get through this without weeping and making more of a mess of yourself. “Arthur, you’re gonna need someone who…who can satisfy you. You know? You deserve someone you can live with lookin’ at day to day, someone you can want, someone you can get excited about and delight in. And I want that for you. Someone fresh-faced and beautiful, lovely and graceful and trim.” A stinging pain quickly fills your chest as your chin trembles. “I’ve never been those things, even when I was younger.”  
“And…the physical s-side of things…” you continue, “it’s a big part of it. It’s supposed to come easy, supposed to be a way you show how much you love the other. How…” you swallow, “how’re you ever gonna do that when…when I’m so repulsive and wretched?” You sniff again and wipe at your cheek. “I just couldn’t live with it, couldn’t bear it, if… It would just break my heart if I were to…disgust you…Arthur.” You purse your lips as your frown goes wobbly. “And I know you’d make a wonderful father. How’re you ever gonna…” you squint in pain, your tears overflowing as you go into a deeper whisper, “make babies, if you can’t touch me?”  
You look down and fiddle with a fold in your skirt. “‘Sides. I’m sure I’d quickly get on your nerves, ‘cause I’d always be so worried that all that was between us was pity. I mean look at ya, Arthur.” You try for a playful, sarcastic scoff, but it comes out as more of a sniffed snort as you throw a glance his way. “I’d be in way over my head.” You rest your left hand on the side of your face and shake your head as you look at him. “You’re such a catch, I’m certain you could get any beauty you want. And you want somebody confident and bold, don’t you? It ain’t me. Don’t waste it on me, all right?” You watch as he turns to face forward and his eyes sag. “No, I’m meant to be alone,” you whisper, “and I’ve accepted that.”  
After a few more moments of quiet, a grin rises on his face and he suddenly starts to chuckle, his laughter slowly growing in ease and rising in tone.  
Your heart stops cold, and your eyes grow wide in terror and panic—that you could’ve so thoroughly misread the character of your dear Arthur. That you could’ve forgotten for a moment just how farcical, how deserving of scornful laughter you are.  
He lifts a hand and rubs the back of his neck with a shake of his head as his wheezing laughter subsides. “I shoulda gone first.”  
“Oh,” you whimper as you move to get up and run away, really run away—maybe you could find a way to live on your own again—but he catches you by the wrist.  
“Wait, wait! I wasn’t… _God_.” He sighs, lets out one last wheeze, and shakes his head at himself. “I really…bungled that up. That was not the moment for…” He sighs. “Forgive me?”  
You eye him curiously. His eyes are clear and even gleaming, filled with something honest; and it comforts you.  
“Is that what you want?” All his mirth has been replaced by a grave stillness and a deep concern.  
“I want you to be happy, healthy, and loved.”  
“What about you.”  
You take a breath. “I gave up on wantin’ things beyond bein’ okay, Arthur.”  
Something slightly wry springs into his eyes. “I know when you’re lyin’. I know you. And you’re lyin’.”  
You sigh and tilt your head back a little in exasperation. “It ain’t about what I want. It’s about reality, what’s real. Everything in my life, my whole life, has told me it just ain’t possible.” You force yourself to look him in the eyes, though you know yours are filling fast, and you try to steady yourself. “It hurts to want somethin’ that don’t exist, that’ll never be, that can’t be. You understand?” You follow his gaze to the ground.  
He nods soberly and lets out a breath. “I shoulda gone first ‘cause I…I need to tell you that I saw you. Earlier today.”  
Your eyes slowly rise to see him looking out at the river.  
“I didn’t mean to, mind you. Didn’t follow ya or nothin’. I was out on my mornin’ ride, when I came across you.”  
As you put the pieces of his words together, your eyes widen.  
“At first I didn’t know who it was, then I realized it was you. Bathin’ in the waterfall. Stark naked. I started to turn away outta decency, but I just…couldn’t.” A smile pricks up on the corner of his mouth. “‘Cause you had to be the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen—person or creature. Simple. Nothin’ but you, standin’ there in your nethers.” His smile widens as he takes a very deep breath, filling his chest, and letting it out as he speaks. “I’d already been sweet on ya for quite some time, but it made things…clearer somehow. Like you were meant for me and I was meant for you.” He turns and looks at you, his eyes demanding yours. “You understand?”  
Several things flood your head and your chest and your eyes all at once—shock, confusion, severe embarrassment, longing, hope, fear. “But-but—you didn’t see me up close, Arthur! I got lumpy scars on my shoulders, wrinkles on my big fat thighs. I got thick ankles,” you point down at your legs, “a-and…” you swallow when you realize he’s come a little closer as you point up at your head, “dry scalp…” You look up into his eyes, your voice gone quiet. “Sometimes I smell bad.”  
“Don’t we all?” he almost laughs, his brows fleetingly pulled together.  
You can’t do anything but give a staccato nod.  
“Did you think we weren’t all human? Are you…tryin’a come up with things now?” he squints with a smirk.  
You swallow.  
“Truth is, I like me a handful a’ woman,” he smiles.  
You look back and forth between his eyes, still too unsure whether to take him seriously, whether this was a joke or a dream.  
“Do you not…like me that way?” his expression falters a moment. “Is that it?”  
“I _love_ you, Arthur,” you blurt out, your brows drawing up. “I have for a long time now.” You bite your lip. “But you just can’t want me. You can’t.”  
“Why don’t you let me tell you what I can and can’t do,” he says, his tone firm and matter-of-fact rather than curt and frustrated. “Jesus, (Y/N)…” he sighs and rubs his neck, harder than last time. “I don’t know what it is gotcha so convinced you don’t deserve love, but it’s killin’ me. Prob’ly too many Micah’s out there…” he adds with a mumble as his eyes venture back over to you. “You can’t be always wonderin’ why you out of everybody. I want you ‘cause you’re the only one in the world with your heart. The only one.”  
He drops his hand and looks at you. “Now I know how you feel, lemme tell you how this is gonna go, if I have anything to say about it.” He catches you by the eyes and speaks calmly and evenly. “Soon as you’re ready, we’re gonna get married, ‘cause I’m tired a’ wastin’ time.” When you suck in a breath, he reaches out and gently takes your hand, stroking it softly with his thumb. “And because you trust me, you’re gonna let me make love to you on our weddin’ night.” Sensing your uneasiness and noticing your breathing pick up, he nods. “Might be real hard for you to trust; but you will. And it’ll be wonderful.” He lifts a hand and brushes a strand of hair away from your face as your tears threaten to overflow. “And we’re gonna make those babies we’re both wantin’, that you were sure you’d never have.”  
That was enough to bring your tears spilling down, and you cover your crumbled face in your hands and sob desperately.  
He clears his throat at the sight of you and brings his hand to your hunched back, gently rubbing big circles there. His voice has just a touch of hoarseness when he speaks again. “And you’re gonna be an amazin’ mama.” He looks out at the water, then looks back down at you with a soft smile. “Wanna know how I know all this?”  
Sniffing, you take your hands away just a bit and chance a look up at him.  
“‘Cause I already love you. And I always will, darlin’.”  
Something like a laugh mixed with a cry of joy jumps out of you through your sobs.  
“And all this is gonna happen, just like I said. But it won’t change what’s goin’ on inside you, won’t make you believe it,” he says. “It can’t be dependent on somebody else; it’s gotta come from you. All I can do is try to help you heal. Stick by you and love you through it. And I know you’ll do the same for me. ‘Cause you’re a good woman. A good person, through and through. You’re like treasure to me, sweetheart. The best I’ve ever found.”  
He brings his arm around you until his hand is on your right side and strokes your arm as he pulls you close to him.  
You give in and rest your temple on his chest as you both look out at the sun setting in hues of pink and purple over the river.  
“Ain’t a one of us perfect, (Y/N),” he says. “But I love you all the more for it. For exactly who you are. And who you are is beautiful.”  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never thought I'd post anything else for this one-shot. But it's without a doubt the thing with the most kudos by proportion of anything I've posted (which is both very nice and a bit disheartening, since it's taken the least effort). So it seems it's quite relatable. I'm sorry that that's true, but I'm sincerely glad to offer a work that helps others and myself feel seen. So here I am!

The day Arthur took you to pick out a wedding gown, you stood there numb, gazing over the selection in the tailor shop. You found yourself standing before the most gaudy display of gowns available, each with yards of fabric and frills and lace to cover you.  
As you looked down and ran your thumb over the material of the display nearest you, drenched in lace and little white beads and a collar up to the chin, you couldn’t seem to remember passing the simple gowns.  
You thought back to a moment after Arthur had proposed, when you'd both gone back to your horses. Standing there in the woods alone, everything had changed for both of you. And before you’d mounted your horse, he’d turned back to you. Your breath had gone still from his deep gaze. He'd gently taken your wrist and pressed his lips to yours. Letting you know just exactly how he felt towards you. That he was serious. Staking you for his own.  
From that moment on, you’d stood behind him when you walked in public places together. But he seemed so intent to let the world know that you were his fiancé. And when he stepped out from in front of you at the tailor’s to introduce you to the shopkeeper and say you were looking for a wedding gown, your gaze had been glued to the floor, your cheeks hot with shame. Prepared to avoid the shocked expressions, the crude, nasty comments pondering how such a looker could’ve picked such an utter mess for his bride. And even though what you’d expected thankfully hadn’t come, you’d thought at that point that maybe it wasn’t such a good idea after all, for them to see Arthur first.  
You blinked as you struggled to bring yourself back to where you stood before the gowns in the shop. And the thought occurred to you that you wouldn’t be the one to see yourself in any gown. That maybe your fiancé should be the one to pick what you wear the next day. And since he’d been practically egging you on towards this whole courage and trust concept, you turned and looked at him.  
“You choose,” you said quietly.  
He turned to you from what he had been perusing. He nodded and began to look over the gowns. You held your breath and hoped that he knew you well enough to pick something modest, with more fabric rather than less. So your comfort could be the one sure thing you could cling to, find refuge in, and hide behind on your wedding day.  
But your heart skipped a beat when he ventured towards the other end of the spectrum, the section you had subconsciously avoided at the outset. With dread, you watched his hand reach out towards them—the simpler gowns.  
And his hand landed on and pulled out a silken number with a scoop neck, little cap sleeves, nearly absent back, and absolutely no frills or embroidery on it. All at once, you could clearly envision the rolls of fat near your hip bone peeking straight through the thin fabric. It was a slip of a thing, practically a nightgown, and went against every popular fashion of the day. For a moment you thought it might actually be a nightgown, or negligee. For to be anything else would make the shop itself obscene.  
“This one.”  
Your jaw dropped. You couldn’t tell if he was simply teasing or really pulling an unfair joke. “I can’t wear that,” you breathed.  
“Sure you can. And you’ll look exquisite.”  
You shook your head, your tongue gone dry but somehow glued to the roof of your mouth as you tried to pry it. “Arthur, you ask too much of me. I’m sure the tailor won’t even make that in my size.”  
“She'll take your measurements—"  
“Please. Please, Arthur. Pick somethin' reasonable.”  
He must’ve been able to see the truly panicked look in your eyes. Because to his credit, he grumbled and relented.  
“All right,” he said. “But I’m gettin’ it for another day. When it’s just you an’ me.”  
You'd have to have been blind to miss the wry gleam in his eye and the smirk on his mouth. And you gulped.  
His hand roamed over to another. It was still simple—no lace, hardly any frills or embellishments to hide you. But it was made of actual fabric, and you were grateful.  
The wedding had been somewhat of a quiet, private affair, since neither of you knew or wanted gobs of people there. The preacher and two strangers to act as witnesses. You’d share the news with the gang later.  
It came and went. You hadn’t been in a trance, and it hadn’t happened remarkably quickly either. But it was the feeling afterwards—that you could so clearly and easily remember being a woman alone one minute, and a married one the next.  
He’d stood before you and taken your hands in his. Taken your surname and replaced it with his. Taken your heart into his. Given you promises of love and care, vows of honor and faithfulness, his very life, in return. No matter what. And you’d done the same. Your pasts, presents, and futures are all each other's now. ‘Til death parts you, the preacher said.  
And now here you stood, in the wedding suite of the finest hotel he could find, looking into the mirror above the vanity as Arthur set the carpet bag down against the opposite wall behind you.  
“It’s lovely,” you whisper as you run a hand atop the dresser and look out across the spacious room. A large cherrywood wardrobe sits against the far wall, and a fancy wingback chair and desk sit in the corner.  
You look back at the vanity. It’s big enough for a portion of its surface to be covered with a porcelain pitcher and basin for washing and shaving needs, but the rest is empty.  
You gaze over the room again. A gold-plated candelabra sits on a bedside table, yet to be lit. A large window with gossamer curtains. A bench at the foot of the bed frame with a big, puffy floral quilt folded atop it. And a huge bed. Plush satin-encased pillows and an intricately patterned down comforter littered with velvety red rose petals.  
“Yeah—” he drawls with a satisfactory grunt, “only the best.” He tacks a wink to the end.  
It sends butterflies through you, but they’re quickly caught in the tangle of thorned snares that sits inside you, pricking your chest. You know what’s due to come next. And for all the gentleness he shows you, Arthur is a man. Big and strong, rough and tough, with a long history all his own. You’re sure he’s antsy. But you couldn’t be any further from that than you are in this moment.  
You try for a soft smile in return as you look down. But your chest stings. And your breathing, though you’re hiding it well, is excruciatingly pained and labored. Only getting more so.  
“D—” You swallow. “Did you enjoy it?” When he glances your direction, you clarify. “The sunset tonight.” Small talk. _Oh god_.  
But your awkward words have been no buffer to him. He’s kicking off his boots and removing his puff tie.  
“Oh, it was one of the loveliest I’ve ever seen,” he offers with an easy smile as he removes his cufflinks one at a time. “We were lucky.”  
‘ _We_.’ You find that you like the sound. It’s rosy and hushed and sweet. And in the quiet of the room, you wonder if this is what the conversation of love sounds like, what comforts married couples enjoy in the privacy that is each other. Wonder if you’ll always have it, if you’ll get the chance to learn more about it. Or if, like almost all good things, it’s only a hollow illusion.  
You realize with an internal start that pieces of his clothing are coming off of him—his black suit coat is already hung up to reveal his brilliant, crisp white dress shirt—while you stand still and grave in your wedding gown before the vanity mirror, your stomach up high in your throat.  
You’re rushing headlong towards the moment. That moment when the truth will come to bear. When you’ll find out, for better or worse, if all the love Arthur’s promised he has for you will stand up. Whether it’s strong enough. Whether when he sees you up close, he’ll want to touch you, or he’ll turn in repulsion and disgust. Maybe even frustration and disappointment. Whether he’ll throw you away like trash.  
And you’ll know for sure. That you could never deserve him. That you weren’t ever meant for this. Marriage. Or love.  
That it was only meant for beautiful people. And somehow, you’re out of place.  
You look forlornly into the mirror and begin to unbutton the collar of your gown. You suppose for a moment that this is your lot. That the life you were living before, of loneliness and seclusion, was not painful enough. And you were due more.  
But as you get further down, enough to expose part of your left breast in the mirror, you think of him. You shouldn’t have done this. Should never have said ‘I do.’ Now the only way out is to hurt him. Something you never wanted to do in a million years.  
You hope to God that he’s calm and level-headed enough to hear you out, to understand that what you’re about to do is for his own good.  
Shutting your eyes tight, you feverishly begin to turn. “Arthur, I don’t know if I can do th—”  
All at once you almost swallow your own tongue. He’s already half naked, his shirt and belt strewn about the floor, the top button of his pants undone as he looks up at you.  
You swallow, this time intentionally. And the action clears the much-needed pathway for you to start breathing again as your eyes travel over him. He’s brawny and imposing, with dark, coarse hair covering his forearms, chest, and even his abdomen. His shoulders are sturdy—hewn and carved from stone. You think to call him lean and tight, save for the curvature of the muscles in his chest and upper arms.  
His body could strike a match from ten feet away.  
“What was that you said?”  
You frantically shake your head. “Mmm…n-nothing.”  
He nods, unknowing and innocent.  
You turn and let out a breath through pursed lips, puffing up your cheeks as you run a hand over your forehead and back through your hair.  
Holy God. You’re in too deep. You’ve never loved a person more. Or in this way. And he’s got you chained to the floor. Like a damned circus monster—atrocious and heaving and snarling, but really just panicked and cornered and scared.  
_Let him never see the two of you in the mirror at the same time_ , is the only laughable solution your mind has come up with upon scrambling. And you do laugh, inwardly and bitterly.  
You quickly grab the big quilt from the nearby bench and wrap it around you before you proceed to undo and remove the rest of your gown and frippery underneath.  
When you've finally got just the quilt around you, you smack the heel of your hand against your forehead as it hits you like a load of bricks—you’ll have to arouse him somehow. Not have to. You _want_ to arouse your husband. Sure. But ‘want’ and ‘can’ are two completely different and separate things.  
You bring your hand down in front of you through the edges of the quilt and look at it. Yours have always been a bit pudgy as far as hands go, the segments of each finger a bit rounded and plump. Now they’re your last hope. As you look at it, you decide that maybe you can use it between the two of you. And he’ll never have to lay eyes on you.  
Grasping the edges of the quilt tight around you, you begin to quietly walk towards the bench. And you hear him.  
“Oh, honey, _no_.”  
You glance back over the edge of the quilt in his direction—he's completely naked now.  
As you hurriedly duck into the quilt and pull its edges all the way up over your head, several thoughts flood you at once. The look of deep concern and something like sadness in his eyes. The way you must seem so bizarrely childish and absurd, borderline idiotic right now.  
The fact that you’re somehow both naked, in the same moment, in the same room, alone.  
The word _chiseled_.  
In the darkness and quiet within the quilt, you swallow again as you plop down on the bench. “ _Arthur! I’m so sorry!_ ” you cry out, desperate for understanding from the one person who can make all of this go away. “ _Take me back to the shack in that old mining town, okay? Drop me off. Forget all this._ ” You feel him sit beside you. Surely by now his patience is being tested by all your antics and needy whimpering. And maybe he’s become frustrated enough to actually comply with your request.  
“I’d still be married to you.”  
“ _I can’t_ ,” you sniffle quietly. “ _I’m too afraid_.”  
“I make you afraid?” you hear him say.  
“ _No! It’s me!_ ” As a matter of fact, you’re not afraid as long as you’re inside the quilt. You’re afraid of what’s to come. “ _I ruin everything. And I’m afraid that…_ ” you sniffle quietly again, “ _that you won’t love me anymore_.”  
He pulls the top of the quilt down from around your head to reveal your sorrowful face and downcast eyes.  
“Men…men need some level of beauty,” you whisper. “And I just truly don’t have it.” You pull your top lip inward for a moment and look away. “I would see sweethearts hand-in-hand. The love in their eyes. I would see babies in their mamas' arms. On the street, you know. So pure and darling, innocent and trusting and sweet. Heaven on earth. The adoration, the joy… And I'd have to dart away to burst into tears every time. Because all I could think was, ‘Never. Never, never, never. Not for you.’”  
You look back down at the floor in front of you. “Do you have any idea what it’s like, being the obstacle to your own dreams?”  
He sighs and nods with a sardonic chuckle. “You’d be surprised.”  
“Really?” Without much thought, you look up at him beside you. But you shouldn’t have done it. Because his blue-green eyes are a tether straight to your heart like nothing else in this world.  
Your brows involuntarily draw up, and your shoulders slump down. “Never is a long time, Arthur. And I’ve lived with that heavy weight for a long, long time,” you look back down again. “I should've been at least a normal, acceptable level of beautiful, or the world should’ve been decent or at least a tolerable level of cruel. But both repulsive me and a cruel world together is just too much,” you shake your head.  
“You were supposed to marry someone beautiful, Arthur,” you continue. “I was just gettin’ used to it. Bein’ invisible and alone. Just beginning to understand that…that it was for the best. For me, and…just everyone.”  
Your gaze drifts his direction again from the corner of your eyes. “And then you came along.” Before you even finish the quiet sentence, his smirk has you releasing a breathy, sniffled chuckle. “And you loved me. And you made me a cog in the works. Things like this just don’t happen to me, Arthur.” You touch your fingers to your forehead for a moment. “You don’t even want to have me and leave me lonely, like all that most women in our world ever get.”  
He sighs, all your words apparently weighing almost as heavily on him as they do on you.  
“I…I don’t think I see you like you do,” he finally says after a bit of quiet, bringing his hand up to rub the side of his neck. “I mean, I do. I see you. Exactly as ya are. But not…the way you do,” he shakes his head and squints sourly from the corner of his eyes at you.  
Only then do you remember that he talked about this moment. That he knew you’d have trouble trusting, and that you’d be nervous. You’re grateful for his quiet response. But you feel bad again, about forcing and dragging your precious new husband through this multiple times.  
“I made a vow to you. An oath. Because I wanted to,” he says. “The way I see it, love is a choice. It ain’t a feelin’ that comes an’ goes. So when you get real afraid…about that…”  
He can’t even bring himself to say the words you did, ‘won’t love you anymore.’  
“I want you to remember that, if you can. Try to remember. That I choose to love you, and I won’t ever stop. Not for nothin'.”  
You close your eyes and take several moments to let his words seep into your heart.  
“So come on,” he finally says, getting up and standing before you, helping you up to a standing position. “Let’s have the blanket, Love.”  
As you stand there clutching it, you start to tremble. It takes everything inside you not to wag your head like a frightened child.  
“Come on,” he nods with a gentle smile as he begins to take it in his hand.  
You’re caught in the decision-making moment. Do you love him enough to trust him. To take him at his word.  
You do, but it doesn’t make it any easier when you slowly release your fingers, letting the quilt fall to the floor from around you. As hard as you try, you can’t keep from wanting to hide yourself with your arms. But there’s too much of you to hide—your secret, tender bits too far from each other, and your arms and hands too small to do the job.  
So you stand there, eyes glued to the wood panel floor, frown bent and tight and somber, and you start to shake a little. And you’re ashamed even of that, that you’re cowering before your new husband.  
The last thing you ever expected was for him to come close and thread his arms under yours, wrapping you by your midsection in a big bear hug and tucking his chin into the crook of your neck.  
You’re stopped cold, the blood in your veins slowed to a chill. In surprise, your arms have raised a little in the air, completely unsure of themselves and where they should be. And then when you allow yourself to feel him around you, your arms drape around his back. And you close your eyes and breathe, drinking in his closeness, his touch.  
But before you know it, his kindness has you trembling violently and sobbing into his shoulder. As he pulls away, you can feel the rivers on your cheeks.  
“I’m sorry,” you weep. “I shouldn’t cry. Your wife should be calm and collected,” you sniffle.  
He shakes his head as he looks down at your face. And in the matter of a moment, he’s taken your mouth in his. He doesn’t care if your tears transfer to his own cheeks.  
Your breath catches. This is not a kiss like the one he planted on you in the forest. Or even like the one before the preacher. This is deep and rich and hungry. His lips and tongue are soft and warm.  
As he draws away to look at you, to check that you’re okay with what he’s done, you realize your breathing has evened out. Though your lashes are still wet and your eyelids droop heavily and dazed, there are no words in your vocabulary for how appreciative you are of this method he’s shown you of comforting another.  
_Mmmm…m-mmm_ …unintelligible and mumbled, is all that’s in your head.  
His hands are under your ears, cupping your face near your jaw. And you’re still, your gaze traveling back and forth between his jewel-like eyes, over his face, and down to his mouth.  
_M-mmm…mmmmmm…_ in your mind drums louder.  
And you’re leaning forward for him.  
_More_.  
When your mouths meet again, there’s more intention and certainty in the taste of it. The pain in your chest of moments before blossoms and blooms into something else, and your heart thumbs wildly. You savor the shape of his plump bottom lip, the feeling of his big hands near your face, the scents of sandalwood and lavender, the slippery warmth of his mouth. Your ears ring with the glorious sounds of clicking and tinkling and smacking, to let you know it’s real.  
He slowly reclines you back onto the bed beneath him, and you close your eyes and sigh. He’s pressing soft, slow kisses all over your body, in places that never see the light of day. In places no one should ever see. No one.  
But your husband.  
You're in such a heavenly, swelling state of bliss that you don’t have the gumption or wherewithal to refuse him.  
His mouth finds yours again. His body flush to yours, all his touch—it overwhelms you. Because you’ve had so little, and he gives it to you so freely. And there's no touch in the world like his for you. Like a chirping chick in a nest, you’re famished for it, gulping it down like it sustains your life.  
He fits perfectly between your legs. You bring your hand down and realize that you’re already pillowy and slick, ready for him. He eases himself gently, carefully. And before you know it, you’re making love to each other. Without much added effort on your part. Your love and your body are driving you. To make him feel the way he makes you feel. All the while relishing his love, a love that’s surprised you, time and time again.  
Because here you are, Mrs. Arthur Morgan. Alone with your husband. He’s made it so that only you can say that. And he does love you. And his love is strong.  
Here you are, your thighs hooked up high around him, calves taught and dangling, toes curled tight. Here you both are, with no apprehensions or hindrances, against all odds—bodies dancing, souls pouring back and forth into each other like liquid gold in a kiln, mingling and blending, until you can’t tell where you end and he begins.  
When he notices you biting your lip and holding your breath, his eyes shoot wide.  
“Don’t hold it back! You crazy?” he almost laughs.  
You immediately let out a ripping moan as your mouth finds the hollow at the base of his throat, and the sound vibrates against his skin.  
As you arch your back for a moment, you struggle to chase the breath that sits just on the edge of your lips taunting and teasing you, unable to catch it. You can tell he's right there with you; the expression on his face says it all. And you flutter around him like a butterfly as the blessed rapture overtakes you just moments before it takes him, like a quake through the earth, like waves crashing on the seashore.  
And after, when you’re both raw, limp casualties of ecstasy but still overwrought with affection, you lie there together. Gazing at each other. Breathing each other's breath. His fingers are threading through your hair, your lips at the base of his angular jaw.  
You’ve never felt closer or more intimate with another person in your entire life. It’s like you’ve been shivering in the cold shadows, all you knew, and now you’re thawing in the warm sunlight.  
“You…are an artist, sir,” you let out in a breath.  
A low, knowing mumble of a chuckle rumbles up through him as he shifts to rest his chin on your chest and looks at you with a contented smile. “ _We_ are. And it’s only for you, sweetheart.”  
You begin to smile and ask quietly, “We can do that whenever we want?”  
He really lets out a laugh now, beginning in his nose and ending with a little hiss through his mouth. And it has your smile widening. “Whenever we want.”  
He kisses the top of your chest before shifting and climbing up to lie belly-down beside you so that you're face-to-face. And you’re so close, that even though it’s so still and quiet, anything you say now would be for only his ears.  
You look into his deep blue-green eyes. And you’re gladly lost as you rest your cheek on the pillow. “You’re so good to me,” you breathe. It’s lower than a whisper, and your chin trembles a bit. “Why are you so good to me?”  
With his arm draped across your chest and his mouth behind his forearm, he looks at you for a moment. Then he picks his head up and rests his chin atop his forearm. “Because I love you.”  
When your eyes search his, somehow he reads your mind. Because a wry smirk rises slowly on the corner of his mouth. “You wanna ask again? Or a different way? It’ll be the same damn answer.”  
A smile cracks across your face, and you quickly bite your lip, mumbling a chuckle. You bring your fingers up and gently trace the features of his face, and he indulges you with a gentle smile. “Are you sad? That it took us so long to find each other?”  
He thinks a moment. “A little. But more…glad. That it happened at all.”  
You reach up and run your fingers through the hair dangling near his forehead. “We have to get away, Arthur,” you whisper.  
“I know,” he says. It’s clearer, louder, and firmer than what you can muster in this moment. He nods, as though he’s already thought about it, and his warm voice mellows and smoothes. “I know.”  
“Because…” You swallow, still playing with his hair, your voice still quiet. “Because I think all I’ve wanted, all I’ve ever wanted, maybe for years even, without quite knowing it yet…” you watch him hang on your every word, and your voice goes deeper than a whisper, “is to have your baby, Arthur.” He starts to blur a bit before you. “Would you let me have your baby?”  
Something deep and aching fills his eyes. An adoration, a yearning, and its echo calls back to you. You think he won’t speak, and suddenly he does.  
“If they come from you an’ me, I’ll love ‘em with everything I got in me.”  
He leans forward and kisses you, and you make love for the second time that night. Just as beautiful, but even more comfortable and familiar than the first time. You’re at rest in each other’s presence, each other’s arms.  
As you lie on your backs side by side propped up a little on the pillows and he holds you, he brushes a strand of hair away from your eyes and whispers to you, “It’ll all be all right, (Y/N). It will. You’ll see.”  
You close your eyes. Your name on his lips is better than a symphony to your ears, sweeter than honey on your tongue. “I hope so.” You shift a little so you can see his face and bring your arm up to hook around the far side of his neck with your forearm behind his head. “You really like me, huh?”  
A smirk springs up onto his mouth, and you’re already prepared to amend your comment.  
“Yes, I really like ya,” he snickers before you can.  
You smile sheepishly. “I mean…all of me?”  
“I like everything about you.” He brings his mouth down and kisses the soft space above your collarbone. “I like that you always see the best in people. Even with the world the way it is. See the best in me.” He kisses your temple. “You laugh at my dumb, dry jokes.” He smiles as your laugh ricochets against him. “Mm…” he brings his big hand over your abdomen under your breasts and runs his thumb along the skin there, supple and tender because it’s always secreted away from the elements. And he mumbles quietly, “Your skin is so soft and warm.”  
You smile to yourself and bring your fingers through the hair at the back of his neck. “I like that, as big and fierce and tough as you are, you’re just as gentle and kind, even though you don’t always see it. Strong and protective. Thoughtful. You see and think about a lot of things most others don’t, Arthur. You have a servant's heart. You’d give anything for those you love. And you never give up. No matter what life throws at you. You’re still my Arthur.” You look up at him with a smile. “And yes, you’re witty as hell.”  
Your smile brightens when he laughs and again, you’re close enough that his mirth shakes you.  
He brings his hand gently to the back of your neck and leads you in for another kiss as you both sit up against the headboard. You remember you’d been given a little wedding gift at the tailor’s, and you start to get out of bed for it. But he’s got his hand at the back of your jaw, and his lips won’t let you go.  
You find yourself giggling as you inch away, and he finally relents with a groan.  
As you turn, his voice clips your step before you’ve taken it.  
“No blankets.”  
The words are short and clear and strong, and you fight to keep from letting out a laugh.  
You go to your carpetbag and pull out a box of imported assorted chocolates and caramels as he lights a cigarette and takes a few puffs. “Maybe we’ll be able to tell which flavor the other ate,” you say, trying for coy as you tuck your hair behind your ear.  
“Mm—” he mumbles before removing his cigarette and letting out a moan. “who could care about chocolate when you’re in the room?” He stamps his cigarette out in the ashtray on the bedside table. “Bring those curves back over here, baby.”  
You look up from the box at the wall. His voice is heavy-laden with lust, cupidity, and genuine appreciation. You slowly look back at him with a bright smile before walking back and climbing into bed.  
His smile is big and unhindered. “Oh wife a’ mine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm certain this chapter is nowhere near as good as the first one. But if it's actually bad, we can pretend it doesn't exist. I can even wipe it out of existence if we want!
> 
> Also, due to this chapter, I'm bumping up the rating to 'M'.
> 
> P.S. My sincere apologies if this seems to be an implausible fic due to reader's personality/behavior/mannerisms being that of someone Arthur would never go for. (Most takes I see have Arthur drawn to strong, self-sufficient women.) I totally understand that.
> 
> Comments always welcome! 💕
> 
> 🌻


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